


papers in the roadside, tell of suffering and greed

by sirenofodysseus



Category: The Mentalist
Genre: Alternate Professions, Alternate Universe, Character Death, F/M, Gen, No CBI, Violence, trope bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-28
Updated: 2017-09-27
Packaged: 2019-01-06 08:36:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12207657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirenofodysseus/pseuds/sirenofodysseus
Summary: The world of academia wasn't supposed to be dangerous or deadly, however, the universe had other plans - especially when Officers O'Laughlin and Lisbon came a-knocking on his door. Written for Trope Bingo, square of Alternate Professions.





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> In my apparent need/desire to write ALL the bingos, this story was born. 
> 
> I own nothing.

“Dr. Luther Wainwright?”

 

Glancing upwards from the thick text on deviance in America, Wainwright blinked at the newcomers to his crowded office. He didn’t have a chance to respond, before the duo in navy flashed their identifications at him.

 

“We’re Officers Teresa Lisbon and Craig O’Laughlin with the Sacramento Police Department,” Lisbon told him, her tone conveying no-nonsense with an edge of pressing softness. “When was the last time you saw your Teaching Assistant, Grace Van Pelt?”

 

Wainwright blinked again. “Yesterday evening. Why?” He paused, his eyes flickering between the somber pair. He waited for them to say something and when they didn’t, he continued with the sinking suspicion that something was _very_ wrong. “Is Grace alright?”

 

“No,” O’Laughlin told him. “She’s dead.”

 

::::

 

The last time he had seen Grace, alive and dressed in blue, she had told him she was going to finally be marrying her fiancé of three years, Wayne Rigsby. He had rattled off a statistic about spousal abuse, before he had told her (with a smile) that he’d see her on Monday morning. Grace had merely laughed, rolled her eyes and skipped off into the proverbial sunset – and Luther Wainwright didn’t need to be a leading expert in criminology to know it wouldn’t be a walk in the park for either him or Wayne Rigsby, especially now that they were involved in murder investigation.

 

The only difference? He, at the very least, had seen his share of victimized women over the years. So, when Officer Lisbon set the photo of his TA’s battered and bruised body before him– he didn’t react. Wainwright merely lifted the photo from their manila file and he frowned. Grace was— _had been_ , he silently corrected himself—a bright individual, who was going to go places. She had wanted to apply to the police academy and he had simply dissuaded her as her academic advisor, because the world of academia was _far_ safer.

 

How wrong he had apparently been.

 

“So, you want us to believe you _weren’t_ in love with her?” O’Laughlin asked with the cross of his arms, after the two SPD officers had escorted him downtown for _questioning_. Wainwright said nothing. “I mean, I can’t say I blame you. Pretty girl like that? You’d be the envy of the entire social sciences department…”

 

“Therein lies _one_ problem with your theory, Officer,” Wainwright calmly started, leaning forward to rest his bare arms on the interrogation table. “Why in the _world_ would I kill my own TA, right before I’m scheduled to do a week of symposiums in New York?” O’Laughlin didn’t look impressed, not that Wainwright blamed him. The Officer was just attempting to (poorly) do his job. “If I had wanted her killed, wouldn’t I have also waited until after finals week?” He shook his head. “You name one professor, who actually _enjoys_ the grading of final exams.”

 

He caught the look between O’Laughlin and Lisbon, which he ignored, only to glance back down at the photograph. The officers hadn’t given him much, aside from the minimal time and place of death, but the photo before him spoke a thousand words. Grace had obviously known her killer, as she had been comfortable enough to be barefooted when killed.  She had also not been sexually assaulted, something he could tell from the photographical evidence that Grace’s clothing had not been removed or skewed. She had been killed with a blunt object and he hoped, from the lack of visible blood and for Grace’s sake, it was a painless death.

 

Somehow though, he doubted it.

 

Shifting, he re-glanced at the officers.

 

“You’re not looking for a serial killer,” he said suddenly. “You’re looking for somebody, Grace knew well and felt quite comfortable around.” He pointed at the photograph, especially her bare feet. “You shouldn’t be wasting your time on me, because the probability that I murdered her is quite low. While yes, I _do_ believe you’re looking for a close male friend—my alibi obviously excludes me from the pool of obvious suspects. Something, I _fully_ believe you both knew when you hauled me in.”

 

From the minuscule twitch in Lisbon’s posture, he knew he was right and he smiled at them.

 

“Now, if you don’t mind,” he added, finally standing up after nearly an hour of non-stop questioning. “I have an upper level graduate class to teach in about another hour or so, and the Dean of Social Sciences doesn’t take _being detained_ as a valid reason to call in.”

 

::::

 

The moment he returned to his office, upper level graduate class all but forgotten, he went digging through Grace’s meager work area. Her notebook. Her lectures (all approved by him, of course). Any assignment that she had been in the process of grading. Nothing, however, pointed him to anything specific – aside from Grace’s tendency to be overtly nice to students, especially when grading less-than-stellar papers.

 

While she had been his TA for all of six months, he had never really had any reason to be interested in her personal life. It wasn’t that he hadn’t cared, it was just…he usually wasn’t a personable person. Grace had somehow understood that about him, because she had never twice asked him _how are you doing?_

 

Wainwright wasn’t the type to be remorseful, but he still had to wonder; if he _had_ cared a little bit more about Grace’s personal life, would she still be dead?

 

::::

 

 

“Perhaps, Luther, you shouldn’t be here whilst Ms. Van Pelt’s case is being investigated,” the Dean of Social Sciences, Gale Bertram, told him. “It wouldn’t be a bad idea to take a sabbatical or something.” Wainwright grimaced as he sat across from the balding official, who he held little-to-no esteem for. “I’m sure you’ve got _plenty_ to do that might take you away from the university for six to twelve months.” He watched Bertram shrug and Wainwright had to bite his tongue to keep his temper from spiking. Considering Bertram’s old age and stalling metabolism, he didn’t need to frighten the man into a heart attack. It’d be just another strike against him. “It’s nothing personal against you, Luther. We, meaning Associate Dean LaRoche and I, just believe it’s best that the heat dies down a bit before you reproach criminology.”

 

It didn’t take three degrees, two licenses, and _numerous_ accolades to read between the lines, because he had seen the headlines himself. Article upon article in the _Sacramento Gazette_ slamming the university for his continued employment as head of the criminology department, even after Officers Lisbon and O’Laughlin had confirmed his alibi and in turn, had leaked his innocence to the press. He certainly hadn’t killed Grace, but Grace’s death had certainly killed any chance he had of remaining at the university.

 

Until after the bastard was caught, anyway.

 

His grimace deepened. If the cops weren’t about to catch Grace’s killer, well…he’d just do it himself.

 

Clearing his throat, Wainwright stood. “I’ll forward my remaining lesson plans to you. I hope you know how to make murder less interesting, Mr. Bertram, because half of those students are sociopaths.” He didn’t wait for Bertram’s sputter or the ‘ _is that really appropriate, Dr. Wainwright?_ ”, because he was already out the door and down the hall.


	2. Part 2

Relaxing into the plum faux leather seating, Wainwright sipped at his tea whilst Patrick Jane busied himself behind the counter of his bistro, _The Couch_. He’d accidentally discovered the eatery at the beginning of his doctoral program, nearly seven some years ago; and regardless of his, at times, turbulent relationship with the ass of a proprietor, he still frequented the bistro twice a week.

 

Not that he could really _blame_ Patrick for being an ass. The man’s backstory was almost as tragic as his shitty personality, for Patrick had once been a happily married man until serial arsonist/loan shark, Thomas McAllister, had set his wife and child ablaze nearly fourteen years prior.

 

Patrick had gotten his vengeance, with red-stained fingers and teeth, whilst Thomas McAllister, against the orders of _all_ Sacramento officers involved, had been put six-feet underground.

 

“Heard you went toe-to-toe with Officers Lisbon and O’Laughlin of Sac PD fame,” Jane said to him, ten minutes after his second helping of lavender tea. Wainwright eyed him. “Not the sharpest duo in the history of law enforcement, I assure you.” Wiping the counter, Jane paused with the vibrant dishrag in hand. “She used to be Detective and then, well, the whole McAllister thing happened.” The blonde flashed his teeth almost predatorily. “It’s probably a good thing double jeopardy exists.”

 

Wainwright had no doubts that Officer Lisbon would have dragged Patrick, balls and all, through the coals again if she had any inkling of his actual involvement in McAllister’s death. Of course, double jeopardy—when used correctly—was a beautiful thing as it meant Lisbon couldn’t even try to salvage her reputation by ruining his again.

 

“Anyway,” Patrick continued, still with a smile. “I can only imagine that you’re here, because you’re about to do something extremely stupid.”

 

Wainwright shrugged. “If investigating her death is the definition of ‘extremely stupid’, then sure.” He calmly took another sip of his tea, before he met Patrick’s amused gaze. “I’ve been forced into a ‘however long it takes to clear this up’ sabbatical, thanks to the combined efforts of the _Sacramento Gazette_ and Sac PD.”

 

Patrick snorted. “It’s nice to see that Sacramento PD still enjoys wasting time _and_ impeding investigations with baseless conjecture.” Wainwright scowled and in turn, Jane removed a blueberry scone from behind the case and plopped it in front of him. “On the house. Don’t say I’ve never given you anything.”

 

“Never,” Wainwright commented dryly, shoving the flaky (yet perfectly confected) scone into his mouth. Blotting crumbs from the corner of his lips and taking yet another sip from his blue teacup, he waited until his mouth was empty to continue his _actual_ reason for darkening the man’s doorstep. “You can give me something else too.”

 

Patrick eyed him, almost post humorously. “Aren’t you a little too _old_ for that particular life lesson?”

 

Wainwright tossed the cloth napkin at Patrick’s head, which the blonde caught effortlessly. “No, not that, you idiot.” Wainwright rolled his eyes, which caused Patrick to chortle. “I need to know how you caught your wife and daughter’s murderer.” Patrick looked pained almost immediately. “I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important, Patrick.”

 

Scowling, Patrick tossed down his dishrag. “You don’t have the gall for it, Luther. Seriously. You’re a _professor_ of criminology, not a gun-toting psychopath of the National Serial Killer Association.” The door to the bistro opened and closed, before Patrick returned nearly five minutes later. “Just leave it alone before you get yourself killed.” He then smiled. “Or worse.”

 

“You didn’t leave the death of your wife and child alone.”

 

“No,” Patrick wryly responded. “However, I nearly threw my life away in the pursuit of vengeance and for what?” He placed the dishrag on his shoulder. “A relentless copper taste in my mouth and for people, like _you_ , to never leave me alone.” He shook his head again, which again, made Wainwright roll his eyes. He doubted _too_ many people bothered the blonde about his widowed status. “Regardless of how incompetent the investigating officers _may_ seem, you should let them handle this. It’s far easier, trust me.”

 

“And be hauled in _again_ for murder?” Wainwright asked him with a snort. “I don’t think so.”

 

“Fine then,” Patrick said after another moment of silence, as Wainwright fished his wallet from his pocket. “It’s your funeral and/or incarceration. I only hope playing _Nancy Drew_ is actually worth it for your sake.”

 

Wainwright sat the twenty-dollar bill on the counter with a smirk. “I think you mean _The Hardy Boys_ , Patrick.”

 

::::

 

Leaning against Officer O’Laughlin’s patrol vehicle, just outside the busy precinct, Wainwright waited with a text on police brutality in hand. He had briefly considered ambushing the slender brunette officer at his desk, but there was no way in _hell_ he was stepping foot into the Sacramento Police Department unless he was dragged in.

 

While it wasn’t exactly _illegal_ to loiter outside the precinct, Wainwright figured it wasn’t exactly appropriate either – which he hoped would force someone to investigate his deviant behavior. Luckily for him, he didn’t have to wait long before someone approached him.

_Rebecca Anderson_ , her name plate read.

 

“Ah,” Wainwright started, closing his text with a loud _thump_. “They sent the _secretary_ out to investigate. Should have figured I wasn’t worth the almighty _Officer O’Laughlin_ himself.”

 

Rebecca eyed him, probably out of contempt. “No wonder Officers Lisbon and O’Laughlin suspected you for that poor girl’s murder. You stalk cops.” Wainwright chuckled and Rebecca, in her high heels, crossed her arms against her chest. “I fail to see how a felony is hilarious, Mr. Wainwright.”

 

“I’m just wondering how a total time of three hours and fifteen minutes translates into _stalking cops_ ,” Wainwright commented with a shrug, before he added, “but since you’re out here and playing messenger, you can tell him that I’ll be out here, until either I die or he decides to do his job.” He heard Rebecca huff and in response, he reopened his text. He managed to get through two paragraphs, before he heard O’Laughlin’s voice.

 

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re either naturally ironic or _exceedingly_ moronic?”

 

He eyed the Officer over his book. “My parents _did_ always tell me I was probably going to die in prison, so there’s that.”

 

“If you don’t stop loitering, it’s going to become a _fast_ reality,” O’Laughlin told him darkly and Wainwright held up his text, which had the officer grimacing. “What do you _want_ , Mr. Wainwright? I’ve got a million and one things that require my attention and truthfully, you don’t even make the top ninety-nine thousand.”

 

“I want a copy of the Van Pelt file.”

 

O’Laughlin stared at him. “So, you can whack off to her dead body? Think I’ll pass.” Wainwright glowered. “What need would you, a disgraced criminology professor, have with the file of your deceased TA?”

 

“Oh, the usual,” Wainwright replied, rolling his eyes. He honestly couldn’t understand how _any_ murderer got caught, especially with the shoddy work. “I want to craft one of those unnerving murder shrines to her. Cut up pictures. Stitch her flesh together. Put some type of lotion in the basket.” At O’Laughlin’s _what the hell_ look, Wainwright stared. “Oh, come on! What _else_ would I use them for? I obviously just want to do your job faster than you, since I’d actually _like_ to be back teaching my students before the next millennium.”

 

O’Laughlin scowled. “You think you’re funny, don’t you?”

 

“Considering I’ll probably be staring down unemployment for some time, I’ve got to have something going for me.” O’Laughlin blinked. “So, if you’d be kind and fetch the file for me…”

 

“I can’t just _hand_ over an ongoing murder investigation to someone, who doesn’t even hold a badge. There _are_ protocols, Mr. Wainwright.”

 

“Well, those protocols are obviously being ignored,” Wainwright pointed out, shrugging and at O’Laughlin’s pointed glance, he continued. “Because out of _all_ the officers in the state of California, the supposedly just justice system handed an _ongoing_ murder investigation to two badged individuals, who couldn’t investigate their way out of a paper bag.” In forethought, he offered a smile. “No offense, Officer, but when _do_ I get my badge?”

 

Two things happened that day.

 

The first being that the Sacramento Police Department supplied him with a copy of the Van Pelt investigation, no questions asked. The second, Officer O’Laughlin was suspended without pay for two weeks—pending a full-fledged investigation and psychological analysis—into _why_ a dedicated officer of nearly eight years would deck a civilian in a public place, filled with plenty of security cameras and witnesses.

 

Wainwright thought the tenderness in his jaw, later as he viewed the file, was totally worth it too.


	3. Part 3

Wainwright had first met Grace’s fiancé, Wayne, following her graduation from the criminology undergraduate program. Although he had managed to escape her entire family, thanks to the miracle of food poisoning; he hadn’t been able to escape the good-hearted man who (from Wainwright’s opinion) had seemed determined to be a part of Grace’s personal life.

 

It hadn’t taken him more than five minutes to understand why Grace had fallen for the attractively tall butcher-to-be. Wayne, in his opinion, had to be one of the last genuinely _nice_ guys around and while Grace had a good heart, one of her largest flaws had always been her tendency to be a little _too_ naïve.

 

Wayne, he had gathered however, counterbalanced that with his own brand of skepticism.

 

“I don’t know what you’re expecting me to say, Dr. Wainwright,” Wayne told him, as his hands worked to package the meat. Wainwright tried to keep his attention on their conversation, instead of the industrial meat grinder just behind Wayne’s left ear. “I told the cops what I had found and last I checked, you aren’t a cop. You were just Grace’s boss.” Rigsby turned away from him and Wainwright watched as his fingers wrapped around the butcher’s knife, left sitting on the stark white counter. “Why are you even here? I know you cared for Grace, but why do you care how I’m getting along? We weren’t friends.”

 

“No,” Wainwright agreed, because they _hadn’t_ been friends, “but you found her; and I know how traumatizing the death of a loved one tends to be.”

 

Wainwright heard the butcher’s knife strike something, Wayne’s arm jerking downwards. “You get that tripe from _The American Society of Criminology_ , Dr. Wainwright?” He frowned. It was apparent from Wayne’s tone that the brunette held some anger toward him, which made no logical sense. He hadn’t killed Grace, nor had he slept with her. They had just been colleagues. “Or did you figure that line out, in-between sleeping with her?”

 

“Excuse me?”

 

“You heard me.” _Chop_. “How many of your former assistants, _Dr_. Wainwright, have you slept with over the past four years?” Wainwright said nothing and Wayne’s knife struck the cutting board again. “Yeah, I thought so.” The butcher turned around, his knife stained scarlet which caused Wainwright’s stomach to churn dangerously. “About three months ago, Grace ran into a prior assistant of yours. I’m sure you remember Susan Darcy.” There was another moment of silence. “No? Strange. Because she _sure_ as hell remembered you.”

 

Wainwright crossed his arms against his chest, unamused. His tryst with Susan Darcy had been an unwise decision, thanks to the involvement of two bottles of white wine; however, as he had once pointed out: it wasn’t completely unheard of for a TA and his or her advisor to become romantically involved, regardless of the surrounding ethical complexities. However, that still didn’t make it alright for Susan to have approached Grace. “I admit, Susan and I slept together. I was young and well, alcohol has never made an unwise decision right.” He shrugged before he re-glanced at Wayne. “But I would have _never_ slept with your fiancée.” The idea of he and Grace as a _thing_ hadn’t even crossed his mind, largely out of the respect that he had held for the relationship between Grace and Wayne—as well as the fact that his relationship (or whatever the hell it had been) with Darcy hadn’t ended on good terms. “She was many things, Wayne, but unfaithful? Very unlikely.”

 

Slowly, he watched as Wayne’s knife disappeared and in turn, Wainwright inhaled sharply. “What’d you want to know? My shift’s over in five.”

 

::::

 

“You know man, there’s no such thing as _happy ever after_ ’s,” Wayne told him, sipping at his lukewarm beer. “You live, you die – and everything in-between is unimportant.”  Wainwright said nothing, peeling at the label of his own beer bottle. “I _loved_ Grace and how did the universe pay me back? It killed her, man, with a metal baseball bat to the head.” Wayne sighed, muttering into his beer about the _unfairness_ of it all. “We were supposed to be married by now and instead, I’m preparing to bury her.” He shook his head, before he glanced upwards to eye Wainwright. “You ever been engaged?”

 

“I’m not really the relationships type of guy,” Wainwright pointed out, without hesitation. “So, no.”

 

“Should’ve figured,” Wayne replied. “You academic types aren’t really about the marriage life, are you?” Wainwright said nothing. He supposed _some_ academic types weren’t really about marriage, but he’d just never met the right person to discuss the idea of marriage with. “You know, she wasn’t always about marriage.” Wayne smiled. “When we first met, I couldn’t even get her attention. I’d stare at her neck for hours and she’d wave me off, because she was too busy with her studies and her job.”

 

 _Huh._ Wainwright blinked. In the file that SPD had _graciously_ provided him with, there had been no side-note about Grace holding another job prior to his. Although the past was in the past, Wainwright had an odd feeling that her prior position might have gotten her killed.

 

Wayne continued to talk. “Her parents were completely against her moving to California; so, what does any eighteen-year-old do when their parents disagree? They do it anyway.” He paused to smile and take another swig of his beer. “So, with no money and no friends in California, she had to find a job and man, would she kill me if she knew I was telling you.”

 

“It couldn’t have been _that_ bad.”

 

Wayne side-eyed him. “Grace was a sales associate at _Coming Attractions_.”

 

Wainwright nearly lost it, almost choking on his beer.

 

Grace worked in a _sex shop_?

 

“I told you she would have killed me.”


	4. Part 4

As far as adult shop names went, Wainwright had to admit he found _Coming Attractions_ to be a little too on the nose. He’d been in plenty of adult shops since he had been eighteen ( _Good Vibrations_ , _Toy St-horny_ and countless others to boot) and he’d bought _plenty_ of items to better his sex life, but he had never once seen _instruction pamphlets_ on how to deal with a variety of topics, at the counter. Eyeing the one entitled _Phallic Objects and You 101_ , Wainwright nearly chuckled. He would have _killed_ for one (or all) of the informational pamphlets when he had been eighteen.

 

Instead, there had only been porn.

 

“The follow-up, _Phallic Objects and You: When You Should Call 911_ , is currently out of stock,” at the sound of the male’s voice behind him, Wainwright dropped the pamphlet as if he had been burnt. “Chalk it up to teenagers, who think it’s alright to shove items where they don’t belong.”

 

Turning around to the face the speaker, Wainwright couldn’t help himself. “Personal experience?”

 

The man didn’t seem too amused at his crack. “Do I look like an idiot to you?” Whether it was due to his general lack of a friendly persona or just the speaker seemed about ready to bash his skull in, Wainwright took a step backwards. He hadn’t come this far, only to get himself killed. “You going to just stand there and ogle me, or did you actually have plans to buy something today?”

 

Wainwright blinked at him, almost surprised. “You work here?”

 

“No,” the man dryly replied. “I just stand in an adult shop, for up to ten hours a day, because I have nothing better to do than pleasure myself with inane questions about my employment.” Wainwright said nothing. “So, either step away from my counter or leave. I’ve got work to do.”

 

His mouth opened slightly as the stoic employee stepped forward, re-straightening the informational pamphlets. “How do you expect anyone to buy anything with that attitude?”

 

The stoic individual re-eyed him. “Do you want me to hover as you pick out a vibrator?” He tried to imagine the guy before him answering questions about different vibrators, but the image was just ridiculous so he stopped himself before his mind wandered further. “Didn’t think so, no.”

 

“I’m not here to buy a novelty item,” Wainwright answered calmly. “I’m here to…”

 

He was immediately handed another pamphlet. _Getting to Know Your Anatomy: A Man’s Guide to Understanding the Penis_.

 

Wainwright pushed the pamphlet away. “I’m here about Grace Van Pelt.” When the employee gave no notion of having heard him (or responding anytime soon), Wainwright sighed. “You know her?”

 

“I would think so,” the man replied, crossing his heavily tattooed arms against his chest. “We worked together for four years.”

 

::::

 

In-between customers, Cho (who, Wainwright learned was new management) told him the news of Grace’s death hadn’t surprised him.

 

“She’d never had good luck with the opposite sex,” Cho explained. “She thought she’d eventually meet her prince charming and in turn, she’d finally get that _happily ever after_.”

 

“She hoped she’d meet him _here_?” Wainwright asked, as he glanced about the colorful displays and the line of handcuffs, where a young couple browsed contently. “That’s about as delusional as someone hoping they’d win a million dollars on a technicality.” 

 

“You worked with her; she saw the best in everyone, even when she really shouldn’t have,” Cho answered with a shrug. “When she met her last fiancé, something Rigsby, she told me he was ‘the one’.” And although Wainwright had only known Cho for about twenty minutes, he could tell the man held disdain toward Grace’s belief. “I’ve met the guy a few times and after our last conversation, she most likely dodged a bullet by dying.”

 

“That’s a little harsh.”

 

Cho shook his head. “The guy came in here, three days after her death, screaming at me for how she died.” Grace had once said that Wayne tended to be a _little_ overprotective of her and from the butcher’s initial reaction to his appearance, he could understand how _a little overprotective_ could be translated into _killer_. “I’m not the only person in the state of California who owns a baseball bat.”

 

“He blamed you for her death.”

 

“Accused us of sleeping together too,” Cho replied. “Said I would get what I had coming to me. I told him if I ever saw him around the shop again, I’d call the cops.” Somehow, Wainwright didn’t believe that last part – especially, because Cho’s forearm tattoos were basically all gang-insignia. “He left after that.”

 

“Do you think he did it?”

 

Cho stared up at him, unblinkingly. “You tell me, since you’ve got a background in these sorts of things.” Wayne had always screamed overtly _jealous lover_ to him, but the man’s alibi had been rock solid. So, unless Wayne had paid someone to kill Grace; he couldn’t be the killer and that, frustratingly enough, left Wainwright back at step one.

 

And while that didn’t excuse Officers Lisbon and O’Laughlin from their subpar performance, he suddenly understood the difficulties and frustrations of solving a murder. Everyone lied, everyone owned the murder weapon, and everyone had a motive.

 

“I don’t think he did it,” Wainwright replied after a moment of silence.

 

Cho agreed. “If I were a betting man though, I’d say it was her creep of an ex-boyfriend.” Confused, Wainwright opened his mouth but Cho’s quick _hold on_ had him questioning what _hadn’t_ been said or investigated. He waited until Cho had returned to the counter, the couple long gone with a package in hand, before he voiced the burning question on his mind.

 

“There was someone before Wayne Rigsby?”

 

“Yeah,” Cho replied coolly. “I’m not surprised Rigsby didn’t mention him, as he’s been out of the picture for nearly four years.” Cho paused to shake his head. “Nobody liked him. Total chauvinistic pig.” Wainwright tried to remember if the SPD file had mentioned any ex-flame before Wayne, but the (incomplete) file had just mentioned himself and Wayne as the prime suspects. Which again, hadn’t surprised him. “She started hanging around him about a month after she got the job here. Krystina Frye, Grace and I’s old supervisor, didn’t like him and had to tell him—more than twice—to leave Grace alone, while she was working.”

 

“You told me to leave and I stayed,” Wainwright pointed out, “by your reasoning, I could have killed her too.”

 

“You didn’t batter the hell out of her though, did you?” Cho asked and Wainwright blinked several times in disbelief. “Didn’t think so. They were together a little over two years when Frye decided _Coming Attractions_ needed new management. Her boyfriend hadn’t been too thrilled when I had gotten the promotion and according to Grace, he had knocked her around a couple of times.” Wainwright opened his mouth and Cho continued, before he could ask any further questions. “Of course, the ex-boyfriend had a name; Dan Hollenbeck, how could I forget?”


	5. Part 5

Googling _Dan Hollenbeck_ produced over 100,000 results and adding _CA_ to the end, only made Wainwright hate the internet more. He had never been inept at technology, but the thought of pouring through another set of links had him wanting to gouge his eyes out. Sitting in _The Couch_ , Wainwright tried to distract himself through a third muffin as he poured over the file again.

 

Hearing heels on the linoleum floor, Wainwright glanced up to find Lorelei Martins at his side with a new teacup in her hand and dressed in red. He couldn’t help but give her a kind smile. “I figured you could use another one, on the house.”

 

“Your proprietor’s not going to be happy about the freebies, Lorelei,” Wainwright replied, even as he happily took the teacup off her hands. “You know how he feels about freeloaders, especially me.”

 

He watched Lorelei roll her eyes. “Patrick’s got his own ideas. I’ve just learned to ignore him over the past six years.” Wainwright chuckled at Lorelei. “Trust me, it’s harder than it sounds.”

 

“Thanks, Lorelei.”

 

“No problem, Luther,” Lorelei answered with a smile. “You let me know if you need anything else. Patrick should be back soon.”

 

Wainwright groaned. “Oh, _lucky_ me.”

 

“He’ll never say it aloud, Luther, but I know he likes you,” Lorelei told him, laughing. “You laugh at all of his terrible jokes.”

 

“If only to get free tea,” Wainwright pointed out, causing Lorelei to laugh again as he glanced down at the SPD file. He’d taken to filling up most of the pages with his own handwriting and still, looking at his comments on Cho and Wayne, he felt overwhelmed. Cradling his head in his hands in frustration, Wainwright nearly missed Patrick’s snarky comment to Lorelei.

 

“Ah, the tormented academic-turned-boy scout has returned.” He heard Patrick snort, before something (or someone) had the proprietor moaning. Wainwright thought he heard Patrick say something about _pushy women_ , but the clearing of Patrick’s throat had Wainwright glancing upwards toward him. The blonde appeared to be even _more_ conceited than usual, much to Wainwright’s chagrin. “I warned you, being a detective is not easy. But did you listen to me? No.”

 

He held up the manila file. “I have the file.”

 

“Alongside a shiner, I see,” Patrick commented, smirking. “You wouldn’t have gotten that by setting off Officer O’Laughlin, now would you have?” Wainwright said nothing, even after Patrick had managed to steal the casefile from him. Patrick quietly glanced over the meager files within the manila folder, before he returned the contents to the tabletop. “Whilst stomach-churning and downright gruesome, I’d say the murder of your TA wasn’t fueled by jealousy. If anything, it wasn’t premediated. She was hit from behind with a baseball bat.” Patrick opened the manila folder again, pointing to one of the crime scene photographs. “It all seems so sad and angry.”

 

“It’s murder, _not_ a day at the fair,” Wainwright responded dryly. “What else were you expecting?” Patrick rolled his eyes dramatically, before he turned the page again to point at the crime scene account from Officer Lisbon. 

 

“She was found at 11:28 PM by her fiancé, Wayne Rigsby. The door, according to Rigsby, had been locked upon his entry using his key,” Jane paraphrased. Wainwright blinked. “Because you’re apparently slow on the uptake today, I’ll spell it out for you. Whomever killed your TA; they had a key to her apartment.” Wainwright glanced toward the crime scene photographs again, only to realize Patrick was right. “Or at the very least, they knew where her spare key was located.”

 

Whomever killed Grace Van Pelt had owned a key to her apartment. How had _he_ missed that? How had the _Officers_ missed that?

 

“Forget the eatery business, Lorelei, I should have been a detective or a consultant of some type!”

 

From the back, he could almost _hear_ Lorelei’s rolling of her eyes. “Of course, Patrick. Whatever you say.”

 

::::

 

According to Wayne, the list of those who had keys to Grace’s apartment was small. Aside from the obvious individuals (Grace, Wayne), her landlord, Timothy Carter also held a key for leasing purposes. _“Man was a snake,”_ Wayne had told him over the phone. _“Grace argued with him about her lack of hot water, about six weeks ago. Son-of-a-bitch had just laughed at her.”_

 

Although his gut continued to scream the still unfindable _Dan Hollenbeck_ as Grace’s murderer, Wainwright still approached the landlord as if were the devil himself.

 

“You said you were her brother?” Carter asked, as the duo bounded the flight of steps. “I don’t see the resemblance.”

 

“Adopted,” Wainwright lied. “Her father remarried my mother; we don’t talk about it much.” The landlord made a sound of derision, but said nothing further until the pair stood before apartment 223. At the white door, Carter turned to Wainwright.

 

“You’re obviously not her brother, biological or adopted,” Carter started, crossing his arms against his chest. Wainwright cursed silently. “However, I don’t care.” He shrugged, unblinkingly. “The time, _alone_ , it would take me to verify who you are just isn’t worth it. So, whatever you’re doing, whoever you are—just don’t ruin anymore of the apartment. Carpeting ain’t cheap.” With that (and a few other choice curse words), Carter unlocked the door.

 

“Thanks.”

 

“If those officers find you in here, I don’t know you,” Carter responded again, “You broke in.” Before Wainwright could utter another word, the red-headed landlord disappeared. Wainwright stared in his general direction for a moment, tilting his head, before he shook his head.

 

 _Weird_ , he thought.

 

Stepping forward, after a moment of silence, Wainwright entered Grace’s former apartment.

 

The one bed, one bath apartment reeked of enough bleach and ammonia that he nearly collapsed in the entryway. Carter had obviously been in, scrubbing the floors and the surrounding walls, to rid the stark white apartment of the resonances of a homicide—however, removing blood from an entirely white carpet wasn’t an easy feat. Wainwright could still see bits of splatter, staining the white fibers, and he felt his stomach roll slightly.

 

Still on the crème-colored walls, Grace’s photographs hung; in most of them, she stood with Wayne—always smiling, always happy. He frowned. Wainwright had always heard of individuals, from case studies and first-hand accounts, who entered homes of the recently departed and felt their presence. However, Grace’s apartment just made him feel forlorn. He’d studied so much violence, over the course of his academic life, that he’d ultimately become desensitized to the capability of darkness in humanity. Grace’s death, of course, was dismaying but Wainwright had unfortunately seen worse– and he knew, the world would continue, even with her gone.

 

For his sake, it had to.

 

Stepping past the photographs, he found himself in a darkroom. He searched around for a light switch, using his hands, until light flooded the room revealing an unmade bed and two empty wine glasses, which sat atop Grace’s white vanity. Wainwright eyed the scene with growing curiosity.

 

If the Sacramento Police Department had swept every inch of the apartment, why hadn’t there been pictures of the bedroom? Regardless of his ever-shifting opinions of Officers Lisbon and O’Laughlin, he doubted the two had it in them to omit evidence. So, why had the photographs from the bedroom never shown up in the case file – especially, when it was obvious that something had taken place in the bedroom?

 

Wainwright pulled out his phone. He’d take his pictures and _then_ , he’d purposely put himself into the belly of the beast once more.


	6. Part 6

“If you’re here to get my partner fired,” Lisbon greeted him, without glancing upwards from her computer, after Wainwright had migrated the maze that was the Sacramento precinct. “I’ll arrest you myself for evidence tampering.” He supposed she had every right to be angry with him, considering he had _technically_ doubled her workload by suspending her partner. “And I doubt that any jury or judge in the state of California would blame me.”

 

Wainwright brought up the stills of Grace’s bedroom, before he dropped his phone before the disgruntled officer. Lisbon glanced downwards, before she grimaced up at him.

 

“Most people take pictures of their pets, Dr. Wainwright; not of their dead TA’s bedroom.”

 

He ignored her barb with the roll of his eyes. “Why wasn’t _that_ in the Van Pelt case file?” Lisbon continued to stare up at him, as if he had lost his mind. “Is it the practice now to take pictures of the front door and ignore the love affair gone wrong angle in the bedroom?”

 

“Dr. Wainwright,” Lisbon answered, sounding agitated. “In the Van Pelt file, which you _illegally_ obtained, I can assure you that there is a picture of her bedroom.” She paused to purse her lips together. “There’s also a lengthy dossier, added around two days ago, stating that you’re awfully invested in the stakes of this case and…”

 

“…and, most murderers place themselves into the middle of murder investigations,” he finished for her, which had Lisbon looking unamused. “And before you say it, Officer Lisbon; I, once again, didn’t kill Grace.” Lisbon continued to stare him, until finally, she went back to typing at her computer. “Officer Lisbon, I _want_ to leave you alone – trust me. I just want things back to normal and once Grace’s killer is caught, I’ll never darken you or your partner’s desk-step ever again.”

 

He watched as she paused, her finger hovering above the **F** key. “You’re serious?” He nodded and she sighed, almost painfully, before she slowly nodded as well. “Fine.” She turned in her desk chair, only to face the row of filing cabinets behind her. She unlocked one of the bottom cabinets, before she grabbed the Van Pelt file. “I’m telling you, Dr. Wainwright,” Lisbon readdressed him, as she turned to face him with her nose in the file. “The photo is…wait, it’s not here.” He could see the furrowing of her brow, which told him, she had nothing to do with the disappearance of the evidence.

 

“Well, _where_ is it?”

 

Without another word to him, Lisbon grabbed at her desk phone. “Hey, Rebecca. Can you connect me with the department’s head forensic photographer, please?” Lisbon nodded her head, before she glanced at him again. She didn’t say anything for another minute. “Hightower, it’s Lisbon. Can you tell me who the forensic photographer was for the Van Pelt case?” He watched Lisbon flip a few pages past the evidence, only to jot something down. “Is he in today?” Lisbon nodded again. “When you get a chance, can you send him up to me? Yeah, thank you so much.”

 

As Lisbon hung up her office phone, Wainwright glanced downwards at Lisbon’s notes.

 

In red, she had written _Dan Hollenbeck_.

 

::::

 

It took eight full minutes for Dan Hollenbeck to confess to Grace’s murder, after Officer Lisbon had pulled him into an interrogation room. What had started off as a garbled apology about misplaced photographs had turned into an unexpected outburst, once the officer had pushed a theory on him about how Grace’s rejection had pushed him into murdering her.

 

Wainwright hadn’t seen the interrogation, but as Hollenbeck had been led out of the interrogation room in handcuffs, Officer Lisbon explained to him that Hollenbeck had learned of Grace’s upcoming nuptials from a close friend; and instead of just letting it (and her) go, he had decided to try and stop her from marrying Wayne.  

 

What Hollenbeck hadn’t anticipated, however, was how his unwanted presence in her bed had angered her. She had demanded him to leave and when he hadn’t, she had threatened to call the police. Hollenbeck had tried to reason with her, but when she had gone for her phone; he had had grabbed her metal baseball bat, kept mostly for her own protection, to stop her. Instead of calling the police, he used the key (given to him by his friend, Carter) to exit her apartment.

 

“I didn’t mean to kill her!” Hollenbeck cried out, whilst two officers escorted him down the hallway. “I just wanted her to love me, instead of that brainless oaf! Was that _so_ wrong?” Wainwright nor Officer Lisbon said a word, until after Hollenbeck disappeared past the double doors.

 

“I expect you want to know what happens now?” Officer Lisbon asked him with a side glance.

 

Wainwright shrugged. “Isn’t it obvious?” He expected for her that there’d be _tons_ of paperwork and a secondary arrest of Timothy Carter, before she would be expected to testify on the behalf of the state. “That tower of paperwork on your desk is going to soon become a mountain.” He watched her grimace. “And then, Lady Justice will be swift.”

 

“Depending on the judge and the crime,” the officer agreed, still grimacing, “she can be.”


	7. Part 7

_Four Weeks Later_

  
“Dr. Wainwright.”

 

The arrival of Officer O’Laughlin forced the criminology professor to pause his grading, as the older officer took a seat before his desk. With a sullen smile, Wainwright viewed the officer.

 

“Come to hit or arrest me again?”

 

Officer O’Laughlin, at least, had the decency to look apologetic. “No, not today.” When Wainwright didn’t say anything, the officer continued. “I’m actually here, on behalf of the Sacramento Police Department.”

 

Wainwright smiled. “Am I finally getting that commendation?” Officer O’Laughlin chuckled and with a smile-turned-grimace, Wainwright realized he was _not_ getting any commendation. “If you’re not here to award me the key to the city or accuse me of murdering some innocent woman, what do _you_ or the Sacramento Police Department want?” Officer O’Laughlin said nothing for a moment, before he stood and stuck his hand into his pocket. Wainwright watched curiously as Officer O’Laughlin removed a piece of laminated plastic, only to set it down before him.

 

_Sacramento Police Department_

_Luther Wainwright, Consultant_.

 

“Is this a joke?” Wainwright asked Officer O’Laughlin to which the older officer sighed and shook his head, forcing Wainwright to examine the badge further. Although Bertram had been more than _happy_ to take him back, the idea of teaching the same materials day in and day out almost seemed trivial, especially after solving a murder. “Why would the Sacramento Police Department want to hire me?” The officer said nothing immediately. “Most importantly, why in the _hell_ would you or Officer Lisbon want to work with me?” The last he had seen of the two officers had been at Grace’s funeral, nearly three weeks ago. Officer Lisbon had hoped they’d never see each other again, something Wainwright had wholeheartedly agreed with.

 

“As much as it pains me to admit this aloud,” Officer O’Laughlin told him, after another round of silence, “we would not have solved the Van Pelt murder without you and…well, I believe you’d be quite the asset to our force.”

 

“Even though you _punched_ me?”

 

“I couldn’t help myself. You’ve just got the face for it.” Wainwright grimaced again and Officer O’Laughlin sighed once more. “Look, I’m not going to mince words: the department could use some help on the Friend case.”

 

Wainwright’s eyes widened. “You mean…?”

 

“Yes, I do.”

 

He was already up, out of his chair, papers forgotten. “Well, Officer O’Laughlin, what are we waiting for? We’ve got a murderer to catch.”

 

_The End_


End file.
